


From Death Springs Life (Even the Metaphorical Ones)

by cosetties



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Communication Failure, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pining, Self-Esteem Issues, courfeyrac makes me happy about life, handjobs, idiots all of them, so much piningjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 08:43:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosetties/pseuds/cosetties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a night of baring his soul to Grantaire (or so he thinks), Enjolras wakes to an empty bed and Courfeyrac's attempt at singing. And that new guy with his arms wrapped around Grantaire? So not as perfect as everyone thinks he is. </p><p>Seriously, if his friends insist on being this stupid, Courfeyrac may have to cancel the funeral he had planned for the stick up Enjolras's ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Death Springs Life (Even the Metaphorical Ones)

**Author's Note:**

> I once swore to myself never to write a fic where Enjolras pines because I would die from the cute, but then this happened. Thank you to the lovely BookHunter, who read over this and said it kind of made sense.

Sometimes, looking back at how this all started, Enjolras likes to blame Courfeyrac.

“I think you should ask yourself why Grantaire’s drinking and fucking around bother you so much,” Courfeyrac proposes in the middle of one of Enjolras’s Grantaire-induced rants. Grantaire has invaded Enjolras’s thoughts more and more lately, even bleeding into what started as a perfectly innocent meeting between Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras to discuss their next protest. “And why you let him keep coming back week after week even though you have the tolerance level of a really grumpy old man. Also, while you’re on a thinking spree, can you try to think up some food? I think I ate it all.”

Without looking up from his laptop, Combeferre pulls a granola bar out of his bag and throws it at Courfeyrac, hitting his friend’s forehead with more force than he probably intended. While Courfeyrac rubs his head and swears, Combeferre tries to hide a smile behind his sleeve.

“What kind of shit excuse for food is this? Combeferre, this borders on healthy!”

“You may be developing a potbelly, Courf. Wouldn’t want that, would we? So eat your shitty excuse for a snack because it’s good for you,” Combeferre responds matter-of-factly.

Seeing how Enjolras has already zoned out, Courfeyrac coos, “Aw, look at our little boy with his thinking face on.” Enjolras swears that Combeferre has selective mind-reading abilities, and Combeferre proves him right by choosing that exact moment to throw another granola bar at Courfeyrac, this time nearly taking out an eye.

Grantaire and Enjolras’s bickering is pretty much a fact of nature, as predictable as Courfeyrac’s flirting or Marius’s Pontmercying. Their friends may have tried to stop them at the beginning of their friendship, but they suffer through it silently now. If there’s one thing Enjolras and Grantaire actually agree on, it’s their right to abuse the freedom of speech.  Besides, as Courfeyrac pointed out, trying to stop Enjolras and Grantaire from fighting may change the very fabric of the universe, and he’s only 89% hyperbolizing.

Grantaire is an enigma Enjolras never been able to solve. He’s disruptive, and drunk, and intelligent, and loyal, and a million other words that should never fit together like they do with Grantaire.

Slowly, realization dawns on Enjolras. “I don’t think Grantaire annoys me as much as I say he does.”

“Oh, you _think?_ ” Courfeyrac’s attempt at sarcasm is only mildly effective due to the granola crumbs currently flying out of his mouth.

“I yell at him because he wastes his potential.” Enjolras forms the words carefully in his mouth, as if trying to understand them himself.  

“Uh-huh,” Courfeyrac prompts, “and how do you feel about Grantaire wasting away in a pit of bad self-esteem and sadness?” He laces his fingers together and leans back into his chair, keeping his eyes intent on Enjolras.

“Shit, I may actually, uh…” He chokes on the words.

“…You may actually like-like him?”

All Enjolras can do is whimper.

Combeferre snaps his fingers in front of Enjolras’s face. Receiving no response, he officially declares, “Courfeyrac, I think you broke him.”

* * *

Well, if he’s to lose all control over his emotions, he could have done a lot worse than Grantaire. He’s not quite sure why he still believes Grantaire can do _good_ when the man is so intent on proving him wrong, but Grantaire’s goodness is hiding underneath the dampening effects of alcohol and pointless cynicism. Enjolras could do a lot worse than a painter, kickboxer, dancer, and whatever else Grantaire has hidden up his sleeve.

Enjolras isn’t blind—he knows, objectively, that he’s attractive, and Grantaire has sung his praises often enough for him to know that the man has noticed. Grantaire’s a flirt, though, almost as much of a flirt as Courfeyrac. The amount of criticism Grantaire has thrown Enjolras’s way doesn’t bode well for him, and Enjolras is pretty sure whatever physical attraction Grantaire feels for him is cancelled out by their inability to agree.

It takes Enjolras two weeks to decide to act. He’s no damsel in distress, no, he’s going to take his destiny into his own hands.

Which means seducing Grantaire.

Well.

He only hopes Grantaire doesn’t ask Enjolras how long he’s been in love with him. Hell if Enjolras knows himself. _A while_ , he’ll say, maybe, if he’s going to be honest. _Just—a while_ , he’ll say, even though the vague words aren’t nearly good enough for Grantaire.    

Although Courfeyrac and Marius’s apartment building came with a pool, Joly has made everyone swear on their lives not to use it, and frankly, a dip in chlorinated water isn’t worth the strict disinfecting regimen that Joly will force them to go through afterward. The pool’s main perk, according to Courfeyrac, is the bikini-clad girls who have made it their mission in life to sit on the beach chairs that line it, tanning their lives away.  

The pool isn’t a frequent hangout for Enjolras’s group of friends, and Enjolras has to ask Marius a second time to make sure when Marius points him in the direction of the building’s back door.

“Grantaire said he needed quiet and peace or something?” Marius says. “Something about David?”

“Who?”

“That guy he’s been seeing.”

“You mean they’re just sleeping together.”

Marius hums in response, and  Enjolras rolls his eyes. Grantaire’s fuck-buddies aren’t as common as Courfeyrac’s, but even Enjolras knows they exist. He doesn’t _like_ it, of course, but he doesn’t have a claim on Grantaire or anything, and he didn’t even know he wanted one until two weeks ago. He vaguely remembers an attractive man with spiked hair and a brown overcoat whom he’d deemed pretentious at first sight. Courfeyrac had introduced him to Grantaire a few weeks ago, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Enjolras wonders why it has lasted this long. Nonetheless, Grantaire hasn’t had anything more than casual hookups in years, and it’s probably nothing.

Grantaire’s back is to Enjolras as he lazily dangles his feet into the water. For once, the pool is empty, and the lights emanating from the bottom seem even eerier. The scene is probably something straight out of a rom-com, but clichés are clichés for a reason. Which, when he thinks about it, is a cliché in itself. Enjolras hates logical fallacies like circular reasoning, but figures he gets a get out of jail free card because crushes addle the brain.

“You okay?” Enjolras rolls up the legs of his pants and tentatively dips a toe into the pool. Deciding that the temperature of the water isn’t too objectionable, he takes a seat next to Grantaire, dangling his feet in. “It’s weird not having you at a movie night. I think they’re watching Definitely Maybe. Again.”

Grantaire keeps his eyes on the surface of the pool, though he shifts over almost imperceptibly to make room for Enjolras. “I didn’t think anyone would notice.”

“Well, it’s been,” Enjolras checks his watch, “two hours, and the neighbors haven’t started complaining about the yelling yet. Pretty sure our friends have noticed they have yet to be graced with the sight of Mrs. Carter in lacy negligee showing up to complain.”

Grantaire shudders. “What a shame. The sight of her wrinkly body will be sorely missed. Aren’t we usually at personal insults by now?”

Enjolras makes a great show of checking his watch again. “Yes, we’re right past where you comment on the futility of our cause, so personal insults it is.”

Every action must have an equal and opposite reaction, so every once in a while, Enjolras and Grantaire are bound to have a good day. Enjolras won’t even pretend that they balance out the bad ones in quantity, but these short moments of respite from constantly being at each other’s throats seem to mend more than he ever thought fifteen minutes should be able to. Enjolras has always valued quality over quantity anyway.

Grantaire’s eyes are very, very blue, he thinks. Almost illegal, really. With a start, Enjolras realizes that Grantaire is uncharacteristically sober, his eyes shining bright without the clouding effect of alcohol. Grantaire stares straight into his eyes and deadpans, “You’re almost too gay to function.”

Involuntarily, Enjolras can feel a grin split his face.

Grantaire glares. “No, don’t you dare do that,” he admonishes. Enjolras raises his eyebrows in an unspoken question. “Oh man, you don’t even know, do you?”

“What?”

“Just—just shut up. I’ve had a shitty day, and apparently, I have shitty skills with people, and I’d really like for this conversation to not turn shitty like I know it will if you don’t shut up right now.” As much as Grantaire curses humans and their inability to better the world, Enjolras knows he hates being alone. He’s a tactile creature at heart, and Enjolras has lost count of the number of times he’s caught the man lazily running a hand through Jehan’s long hair or trying to coax Bahorel into what he always assures will be a very manly bro-hug. So, really, Enjolras shouldn’t be surprised when Grantaire shuffles closer to him and lays his head on Enjolras’s shoulder, letting out a small sigh as he closes his eyes.

Two layers of clothes separate much of the skin-on-skin contact, but Grantaire has wrapped a loose arm around his waist to hold him steady as he pillows his head on Enjolras’s shoulder. “I’ve gotten approximately four hours of sleep in the past few days, and I was yelled at two hours ago, so don’t you go all marble statue on me right now. You hate me, disdain me, whatever.”

Enjolras makes a sound of protest, but Grantaire continues to ramble on.

“Just—fifteen minutes of Grantaire touching you won’t hurt, Apollo. Naptime. Why the hell am I talking in third person? That’s pretentious as fuck.” Grantaire shifts awkwardly on Enjolras’s shoulder, trying to find a comfortable position. “Shit, you’re a shit pillow. How skinny _are_ you?”

The last time Grantaire and Enjolras had gotten this close was on an impromptu road trip that had led them to brave Bible Belt Texas. A convenience store clerk had stared at Bossuet like he’d never seen a black person before, and Grantaire had decided that getting a little touchy with Enjolras, the only other person available at the time, would be the height of amusement. Enjolras had suffered through the contact gallantly because, well, _small-town, bigoted assholes,_ and if he knew how much he’d be craving that contact now, he’d have held Grantaire to his side longer than it took for the shopkeeper to start muttering under his breath about the homosexual agenda.

Enjolras cards his fingers through Grantaire’s hair absentmindedly as he’s thinking. He can feel Grantaire’s little puffs of breaths against his skin, and before he’s quite sure what he’s doing, he’s pressed his lips against the top of Grantaire’s curls. Grantaire freezes. “What are you doing?”

Enjolras hastily disentangles his fingers and attempts to shift away. “I just—“

Grantaire’s hand tightens around his wrist. “You’re _really_ not allowed to do any of this.”

“I still have no idea what you’re talking about,” Enjolras says, gritting his teeth.

Without warning, Grantaire shoves Enjolras away, and the sudden rush of cold air against his skin makes Enjolras shiver. He never realized exactly how much warmth Grantaire’s body gave off. Grantaire’s eyes probe him, and though Enjolras has looked away, he can still feel those eyes boring into every inch of him. For someone who has claimed to be nearly falling asleep on his feet, Grantaire is surprisingly alert now. Enjolras can’t be the only one who’s feeling the adrenaline coursing through his body.

“I’m not in a good place right now,” Grantaire warns, harshly.

“When are you ever?”

“You’re really tempting me to do shit you’re going to regret.”

Enjolras sticks his chin out defiantly. “I know what I want/”

Grantaire eyes search his for any sign of hesitation, and when he finds Enjolras ready, he whispers, “Can I?”

If Enjolras has to hear any more doubt from Grantaire, he’s just going to throw him against a wall to shove some self-esteem into his head, but Grantaire interrupts him mid eye-roll with a kiss.

It’s reverent, and slow, and chaste, and it’s even reverent, slow, and chaste for a whole five seconds before Enjolras gives in to his baser instincts and grabs the back of Grantaire’s head, tangling his fingers into those paint-flecked curls and pulling him closer. Grantaire’s lips are chapped and they’re all teeth, but the sound Grantaire makes in the back of his throat is completely worth all the awkward.

Enjolras doesn’t know why he’s so hell-bent on screwing himself over, but before he can stop himself, the word “David” slips from his mouth.

“I’m pretty sure we just had a fight, and I’m going to break up with him, so stop.” Grantaire draws small circles on Enjolras’s skin with his calloused fingers, and before long, Enjolras has lost the ability to speak again.  

Only when he feels his cock stirring in his jeans does he say, “Let’s get out of here.”

Grantaire laughs, and it’s such a rare and melodious sound that Enjolras may even want to release his lips just to hear this for the rest of his life. “Word of advice? Don’t ever become a rom-com character.”

“Duly noted.”

* * *

They say hindsight is 20/20, and looking back, Enjolras should have known. Grantaire stares at him like he can’t believe Enjolras is really sitting in front of him on the bed, but he’s a bit too caught up in other sensations to correct him. Enjolras will probably regret having to clean up the clothes strewn around his usually clean bedroom in the morning, but twenty minutes ago, their goal had been to get naked fast.

“Have you ever…?” The question hangs in mid-air.

“Jehan,” Enjolras says and hopes it’s explanation enough because _there is a hand on his cock_ , and he’s not in the right state of mind for anything past one-word explanations. Besides, Jehan loves everyone. It’s been far too long, and Enjolras should have anticipated that he would revert to his sixteen-year-old self and come embarrassingly fast, but, yeah, well, hindsight is 20/20 or whatever.

Grantaire gives a low chuckle, and it sounds positively sinful. “Of course. I should have known.”

“Are you going to move or am I going to have to take care of myself?” Enjolras forces out between gritted teeth.

“Sheesh. Bossy.” There’s an undercurrent of amusement in Grantaire’s voice, and why are they still talking right now, he didn’t put himself out there for Grantaire to _talk_. Enjolras would really like to explore how Grantaire can turn Enjolras on by just using his voice, but there is a fucking hand. On. His. Dick. He’s never _quite_ understood Courfeyrac’s waxing on the joys of sex before now, but Grantaire’s lazy, teasing strokes make him a quick study.

Grantaire’s thumb sweeps across the tip of his cock and gathers the fluid there. He spreads it across the rest of his erection almost methodically, and shit, _slowly._ Enjolras’s hips cant forward automatically, seeking more friction. Grantaire’s hardness presses into his, and Enjolras spreads his hands across Grantaire’s back to push him closer.

“Will you just—“ Grantaire’s fingers are still too slow. Enjolras makes a sweeping motion with his hand that hopefully encompasses all he’s trying to say, but although Grantaire’s eyes are hooded, Enjolras can tell he’s enjoying this. He’s not allowed to look this composed when Enjolras is wrecked, no way, that’s not fair. Enjolras takes Grantaire’s cock in his hand and begins mimicking the motions Grantaire makes.

Grantaire whimpers torturously and swoops down to capture Enjolras’s lips with his. This time, there’s no pretense of chastity. Their tongues explore each other’s mouths, and the kiss is both gentle and dirty. Grantaire’s hands leave his cock to tangle in Enjolras’s blond curls, and he pulls in such a way that has Enjolras grinding their hips together. He pants into Grantaire’s mouth, and it’s halfway between _stroke me again_ and _pull_ , so Grantaire settles for both, and Enjolras is really going to come like a teenager, isn’t he?

Grantaire places his hand over Enjolras’s to stop him and says, “Okay, unless you want this to end right now, you’re going to have to stop.” Right, at least if Enjolras is to come embarrassingly fast, he won’t be the only one.

Grantaire’s looking at him like he’s some sort of god again, but Enjolras can’t work up the coherency to lecture him about that, so he lets Grantaire continue his ministrations. “You’re very,” Grantaire starts. Enjolras doesn’t know what he’s supposedly _very_ because right then, he twists his hips just the right way, and Grantaire grunts. Soon, Enjolras’s steady rocking has both of them gasping, and he’s so close. He’s not sure how they’re moving perfectly in synch—both of them are so fuzzy with arousal—but _now is not the time to wonder about coordination, Enjolras._

Grantaire kisses and bites gently at Enjolras’s collarbone, and Enjolras’s fingers and Grantaire’s hair are practically one entity by this point. Their cocks slide together, and finally— _finally_ —Grantaire’s hand wraps around both of their cocks, stroking with renewed fervor. All too soon, Enjolras feels the coil deep inside him releasing, his hips stuttering forward as he pants Grantaire’s name over and over. It only takes Grantaire a few more strokes before he’s coming too, streaking both of their stomachs.

Breathing heavily, Grantaire flops, boneless, onto the bed next to Enjolras.

There’s a whole second of silence before Enjolras and Grantaire remember that they’re Enjolras and Grantaire.

“Ow!” Grantaire yelps as soon as his head hits the pillow. He reaches underneath Enjolras’s pillow to pull out a copy of The Social Contract. “Really? Beds are for sleeping, not for cracking your head on a book. You’re such a dork.”

“You know, post-coital glow is supposed to be a thing. I don’t feel very glowy,” Enjolras drawls, easily slipping back into their usual banter. There’s a soft smile behind his words. “Besides, Robespierre, slept with _Du Contrat Social_ underneath his pillow too.”

“What, do you think it’s going to stir you into a revolutionary fervor through osmosis?” Grantaire reaches over to pull Enjolras closer, kissing his sweaty, matted curls reverently. “You’re adorable.”

Enjolras, his face buried into Grantaire’s chest, only manages to let out a dignified huff.

“Come on, let’s get cleaned up,” says Grantaire, and he’s already getting up, already leaving Enjolras.

Panic seizes him. “But you’ll stay?”

Grantaire once again runs his hand along Enjolras’s arm. There’s a pause, but finally, he says, “Yes, I’ll stay.”

* * *

Enjolras wakes to Courfeyrac attempting to sing Defying Gravity in the shower and an empty bed where there should not have been an empty bed. He briefly wonders what Courfeyrac is doing in his apartment when he doesn’t even live here, but it’s Courfeyrac, so he’d really rather not know.

At first, still slow from the effects of sleep, Enjolras thinks Grantaire may have hidden underneath the sheets somewhere. He pulls the covers from the bed and searches, digging his fingers underneath the messy pile of blankets as if expecting Grantaire to suddenly pop out of nowhere.

“R, where are you hiding?” he asks the air. His voice sounds incredibly childlike.

A thorough patting of his bed reveals nothing, and slowly, it dawns on Enjolras that he’s trying to pat a bed down looking for an invisible man.

To his credit, it only takes Enjolras fifteen minutes to realize that Grantaire is long gone.

* * *

Although Enjolras is sure that the front room of the Musain is perfectly functional, he’s never actually done much more in there but pass through to get to the back. Musichetta, who’d been working there at the time, had ushered the lot to the back room as soon as she realized Bossuet and Joly were with them, and Les Amis had never been ordinary customers again. Old furniture and broken chairs fill the back room of the Musain, a sharp contrast to the clean formality of the front. Enjolras has even set up semi-permanent residence on a beaten-up old couch in the back corner. He’s pretty sure his friends have made a few Sheldon Cooper jokes about it, but the butt wants what the butt wants, and if his butt wants this particular cushion, who is he to deny it comfort?

He settles down with a sigh, resolutely not waiting for Grantaire. He is strong and independent. He is a veritable rainbow of independence, all seven colors of I-do-not-give-a-crap-about-R. When Grantaire walks in and inevitably blinks those big blue eyes at him, he’s going to channel his inner wizard and Silencio all thoughts of ending the meeting early just to ask what the _hell_ went wrong.

It’s not an official meeting day, and the Musain shows signs of its lack of productivity. Bossuet is showing Joly cat gifs on his phone, Marius is couponing, and Bahorel’s animatedly speaking to a stranger about waffles. It’s calm though, and Enjolras needed to get out of his apartment.

The door of the Musain flies open with a loud bang, and Eponine’s hands are on Enjolras’s shoulders in a death grip before he fully comprehends what’s going on. “What the _hell_ did you do, Enjolras?” she hisses. “Grantaire barely talked to me this morning, and he went home with _you_ , so you obviously did something. And you know that Grantaire’s favorite thing to do is talk. He never stops. So if he did stop, something’s wrong, and I swear, if you were being your oblivious self again…”

Enjolras has always known Eponine to be entirely too protective of her friends, but he’s never seen it in action before. It’s always been Les Amis against the world, and Eponine’s righteous anger and fury have never been directed at him. He’s pretty sure he hates this new experience, even if he knows Eponine would do the same if Enjolras had been the one to get hurt.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, and frankly, the fact that you would blame me says a lot about your tendency to jump into conclusions,” Enjolras says stiffly. He’s half angry, half hurt, and all confused. Eponine’s not the only one who wants answers. “And why didn’t you just call me and give me some warning?”

“Bossuet dropped my phone into the toilet. But that’s not the point.”

Combeferre places a calming hand on Eponine’s shoulder. A few gentle rubs and her grip loosens, offering Enjolras some freedom. Still, her grip is far from slack, but it’s more the anger in her eyes keeping him locked in his seat and not the physical restraint.

Courfeyrac’s heavy footsteps follow not far behind. Unlike Eponine’s anger, Courfeyrac merely looks tired, and the coffee in his hand doesn’t seem to be helping much. “Eponine, Grantaire said specifically not to yell at Enjolras, remember? It’s not his fault. Whatever happened to R has nothing to do with Enjolras.”

“Please, it probably has everything to do with Enjolras.”

“Wait.” Enjolras doesn’t realize he had spoken. “What?”

Courfeyrac sighs heavily and pulls up a chair, straddling it to face Enjolras. His eyes search Enjolras’s face for any hint of a lie, but Enjolras seems to pass whatever test Courfeyrac had been putting him through. His shoulders slump in exhaustion, and he doesn’t even protest when Eponine nicks the hat off his head to nervously play with the flower Jehan had sewn on it. At least she seems to have temporarily forgiven Enjolras.

“I’m getting more coffee. We’re going to need it,” Combeferre says.

Courfeyrac tells Enjolras, “Do you really not know? You haven’t noticed that he’s been seeing someone else?”

He doesn't want to admit that, no, he didn't because he never really  _saw_ Grantaire before. Enjolras imagines Grantaire’s hands on another man’s cock, someone else’s hands trying to brush the paint flecks out of the unruly brown mop Grantaire calls hair. He suddenly feels the need to throw up.

Courfeyrac touches his hand gently when she sees his face pale. “Last night, before movie night, he told me they’d gotten into this huge fight over you. And so—“

“Me?” Enjolras croaks out weakly.

This time, it’s Combeferre, back with two Americanos and a vanilla latte, who speaks. “Enjolras, Grantaire is in love with you.”

_“What?”_

“Courfeyrac, you weren’t kidding when you said he’s literally the most oblivious person you know,” Eponine says.

“Please, I’m the king of correct uses of literality. I’m literally always right.” Courfeyrac points an accusing finger at Enjolras. “I’m so done with you. I told everyone we should have just shoved you and Grantaire in a closet together a long time ago, but no, they were all like, _we should respect their wishes_ , and _putting them together in a confined space will probably cause an explosion_ , and _R’s been infatuated with Enjolras so long—what if Enjolras doesn’t get it?”_

Enjolras runs a hand through his hair, which he didn’t bother brushing properly. “Since when?”

“A while,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras can’t help but wonder why the universe loves irony so fucking much.  

“But—I mean—I knew he liked me, but not that much.” Enjolras fiddles with the hem of his shirt and avoids looking into his friend’s eyes. It’s hard to reconcile the idea of a Grantaire who’s in love with him with the argumentative cynic he knows, but when he remembers the way Grantaire had been looking at him the night before, he almost believes it.

Combeferre nudges him lightly, but Enjolras gives no indication that he has noticed. “Did we break him again?”

“Enjolras, okay, look, this is probably really weird for you, so we won’t ask what happened between you and Grantaire, but I’m assuming you told him you liked him?”

Enjolras blushes because after what they’d done, the fact that he hadn’t admitted that in so many words finally manages to hit him.

Eponine jabs an accusing finger into his chest. “Well, let me tell you something, mister. He’s been in love with you for so long that he’s probably forgotten who he was before he loved you, but he’s been trying to _not_ , and that was good for him. Didn’t you notice that he was drinking less? That he was smiling more than usual? You’re not allowed to ruin that for him, okay?

Enjolras turns to Courfeyrac. “You encouraged me!”

“That was _two_ weeks ago.”

“David’s really good for him,” Eponine says quietly. She shakes her head to dispel whatever residual anger she still has. “I’m not mad at you, and you’re not the bad guy here, it’s not that. I just want Grantaire happy. All I know is that he came home nearly crying the first time you showed him any interest.”

Even if Enjolras were to enlighten his friends that Grantaire had left him and not vice versa, his thoughts are still too muddled to make much sense of events. Grantaire’s made so many jokes about Enjolras being marble, but he’s pretty sure marble’s never been this confused before. There had been this side to Grantaire he’d never seen before, he swears it, but apparently, that side decided to go gallivanting off with someone else.

Before he really thinks about how pathetic he sounds, he asks, “Was he actually close to getting over me?”

“No. But I’m thinking that pining after you may be healthier for him than you reciprocating his feelings,” Eponine says simply.

Courfeyrac has lost all traces of his exhaustion, and he’s regarding Enjolras with curiosity, his eyes tracing over Enjolras’s face and taking in his own fatigue. “Hey, we probably should have asked. Are _you_ okay?”

He’s pretty sure his friends will be able to pick up on the falsehood, but Enjolras isn’t exactly in a state of mind to come up with a better lie than, “I’m fine.”

* * *

Grantaire is wearing red skinny jeans.

Grantaire is wearing tight, red skinny jeans.

Grantaire is wearing tight, red skinny jeans with pockets that David’s hands are currently inserted into.

“My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love!” Jehan is quoting poetry in the back corner of the room again. Grantaire and David are together and Jehan chooses tonight of all nights to quote Catallus. Right, as if Enjolras needs to hear about an amorous Greek poet lusting over someone married to another man.

Grantaire’s still laughing at something David said before they walked through the door, and when he sees the rest of the Amis staring at the two of them, he smiles and says, “Guys, this is David. David, these are the worst friends I could ask for. Don’t trust them, they’ll steal all your money and leave you heartbroken.”

David chuckles easily and gives a jaunty little wave. “Oh, hi, guys.”

Enjolras can’t help thinking that Grantaire has never introduced anyone to the Amis before. This is bad, worse than he thought.

It’s Bahorel who breaks the silence. “I’m going to fuck you up if you mess with my friend.”

Grantaire pulls David closer and kisses him lightly on the cheek. “Now that the obligatory threat is over, can David stay?”

The Amis quickly settle into their usual meeting activities, and because there’s not much to plan, the meeting quickly devolves into a debate on research-heavy public universities. Courfeyrac’s muttering something about the Deep South and anti-intellectual movements as Combeferre and Feuilly debate productivity over affordability. Enjolras is usually right in the middle of the intellectual brawl, but this time, he turns to David with a grin that’s just this side of shit-eating.

“So, David, what say you?”

David glances to his left and right quickly before realizing that, yes, Enjolras _is_ speaking to him. “You guys are kind of intense, and I don’t really want to get involved.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, the first time he’s acknowledged Enjolras’s presence all night. “Yeah, don’t. Mr. Politics here has a lot of opinions. Of the capital O kind.”

Enjolras waves him off dismissively, and yep, he’s still ignoring the man. “No, I’d really love to hear what you have to say on the issue. I’m sure it’ll enlighten us all.”

God, he sounds like someone straight out of a teen flick. He blames Courfeyrac.

David shifts awkwardly in his seat, and Enjolras looks like a cat who’s just gotten the canary. Grantaire isn’t known for finding people Enjolras can’t reduce to tears with a few well-chosen words, and David seems to be no exception to this tried-and-true rule. “I do medical research at a university, so I’m pretty sure I’m biased.”

Well, shit.

Combeferre perks up. “Did you say medical research? I’m a med student—I’d love to hear about your work.”

“Be too,” Joly says, sniffling. “Whoa, Grantaire dating sobody sbart? That’s a first.” He sneezes, and Bossuet pats his head with a long-suffering but fond sigh. To be fair, Grantaire probably hasn’t dated anyone long enough to find out whether they were medical researchers or lazy bums on the street, so there’s no need for that incredulous tone in Joly’s voice. He should just stop sounding so amazed.

“Yeah, David does research on cancer when he’s not helping his sister with her non-profit.” At this point, Enjolras doesn’t even know if Grantaire has magically acquired some of Enjolras’s obliviousness or if he’s doing this on purpose. “Would you like to hear about it, Enjolras?”

Yes, actually, Enjolras would—he likes learning everything he can.

“No, actually, I don’t,” is what he actually says.

“Oncology?” If it’s possible, Combeferre seems even more excited. Okay, Enjolras is so burning Combeferre’s thick tomes when they get back, no negotiations. His friends were supposed to be on _his_ side, not fall all over David as soon as he mentions that he’s doing research that may eventually lead to saving people’s lives. Enjolras is just as cute as David. Enjolras is just as smart as David. People totally like Enjolras just as much as they like David.

“Okay, enough with the smart talk. You guys can nerd out over coffee or something later. What I want to know,” Courfeyrac says, “is how well you know your Disney. That’s what friendship is all about.”

David offers, “Uh, I played the teapot when we did Beauty and the Beast in middle school.”

Courfeyrac scrutinizes David for another minute before nodding slowly. “Movie night on Friday. We’re watching the Lion King. If you don’t sing along, we’re dressing you up as Bonaparte and siccing Enjolras on you.”

Feuilly pats him on the back. “That’s tough, man. I remember the last time that happened to Marius, he didn’t come out of his room for a week. His girlfriend had to coax him out with cookies and coupons.”

“Hey!” Marius protests feebly.

They make plans for the next week, and before Enjolras can protest, it seems David has been made an honorary Ami. Enjolras leaves the Musain in a stormy mood, and when he goes back for a coat he’d forgotten on his chair, he catches David and Grantaire still in the room.

Their arms are wrapped around each other, and they seem deep in conversation. It’s so _coupley_ that Enjolras wants to scream. The display is sickening, but Grantaire positively shines when he’s happy, and Enjolras can’t look away.

“So that was Enjolras,” David says.

“Yeah, that was Enjolras.”

“He’s…something.”

Grantaire snorts. “That’s one way of putting it.”

Grantaire looks almost sad, and Enjolras hates that David is the one allowed to pull him to his chest and rub slow circles into his hair, which he proceeds to do with amazing alacrity. “Hey, I’m really glad we’re not fighting about him anymore. I love you.”

Grantaire grins wickedly, his entire countenance lighting up. “Well, I suppose, if there’s one last chance to say it, David Posson—“

David tenses, waiting, but Grantaire’s grin only widens. Shoving him away playfully, David feigns anger and says, “You just wanted to quote Doctor Who on me.”

“What can I say, my dear? Ours is a nerdy relationship.” Grantaire gives the room a quick glance and pats David on the shoulder. “Hey, you go outside and wait. I think I left my watch in here.”

David’s brows knit together in worry. “I can help you look.”

“Nah, you should get your car started. It usually takes a while.”

David nods and gives Grantaire one last peck on the cheek.

As soon as David’s gone, Grantaire whirls to face where the shadows have concealed Enjolras. “I can see you,” he calls out.

Enjolras is humming with the need to ask why Grantaire has decided to show up with David. He’s about to call Grantaire out on it too, but the first thing that flies out of his mouth is, “You don’t own a watch.”

“What amazing deductive skills you have,” Grantaire says. “Seriously, we all envy you.”

Enjolras decides to take the plunge. “You didn’t say it back—when David told you he loved you?”

“You are seriously _not_ allowed,” Grantaire repeats, but this time, it sounds more like a warning than the playful admonishments he’d given previously.

Enjolras may not be in touch with his feelings or whatever else Courfeyrac has come up with as a plausible explanation for his single-minded focus on fomenting revolution among the huddled masses, but let it never be said that he doesn’t cut straight to the point.

“Why did you leave?” he asks, his voice calm.

Grantaire states in this matter-of-fact voice that has Enjolras wanting to pull his own hair out, “Because you’re never going to feel the way I do about you.” Before Enjolras can work out what that even means (because he’s pretty sure he’d bared his soul Friday night), Grantaire is already moving away from him. Enjolras can’t help noticing that he’s actually _washed_ his hair for once, paint flecks gone and looking halfway decent. He liked it better before. He liked everything better before. “Now, I’m going to leave, and you’re not going to change my mind, because I really, really like David, and I’m not going to hurt him.”

Enjolras says acerbically, “If you were so sure I don’t return your feelings, why did you sleep with me in the first place?”

Grantaire smiles sadly. “I wanted to see if Icarus could handle the sun without melting his wings and falling into the sea. Turns out he can’t.”

Then he leaves.

* * *

What people seem to forget about Enjolras, when he’s assaulting them with sharp words and calls to rebel against the system, is that he really does care about his friends. So when Grantaire asks him to let things be, Enjolras is going to suck it up even if every fiber of his being is telling him to fight. The last few weeks have been an experiment to see how long Enjolras can play nice with both Grantaire and David.

“…So then the guy’s just looking at Bossuet over here like, ‘what are you?’, and—“

Enjolras sits down on Courfeyrac’s couch, nodding a quick hello to David. Except for the fact that his arm is currently settled around Grantaire’s shoulders, he actually likes the guy. He’s quick-witted and funny, and Enjolras hates to admit it, but he makes Grantaire happier than Enjolras ever could. Grantaire’s made his decision, and it’s not like Enjolras has the ability to change his mind anyway.

“Oh, we’re just recounting our tales of the Bible Belt,” Courfeyrac says. “Next up is how that priest tried to throw holy water on Grantaire after he told him he was raised Jewish.”

David turns to his boyfriend. “Aren’t you an atheist?”

“Yeah, because pointing that out would totally have stopped him from trying to attack me.”

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Courfeyrac motions excitedly with his hands. “There was this guy, right, and Grantaire thought it’d be hilarious to make it look like he and Enjolras were all over each other—“Combeferre elbows him not-so-subtly, and Courfeyrac’s eyes widen a fraction when he realizes what he’s just said. “Actually, ignore that story. That story isn’t important at all.”

David wisely decides to ignore Courfeyrac. “Oh, Enjolras, a couple of my friends said that they may be interested in coming to a meeting. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, new blood is good. New blood is great. Good job, David.” Combeferre looks at him like he’s grown another head, and yeah, Enjolras is excited about the fact that they have more people on their side—he’s just not excited about the fact that David had recruited them.

Bahorel manages to get Courfeyrac’s half-dead DVD player to start working by battering it repeatedly with a mallet, and the first Harry Potter starts playing. Eponine mutters something about how she’s always hanging out with children, even though Enjolras knows she has Slytherin robes stashed in her closet somewhere. Jehan grabs David and begins drawing a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead in Sharpie. They’ve all seen this movie so many times that Courfeyrac knows all the lines, but even he’s impressed when David says “you’re Harry Potter” along with Hermione in a perfect British accent, right on cue.

Grantaire seems relieved that his friends have accepted David so quickly. He doesn’t even mind when they begin making jokes about how he drinks like Hagrid and is probably going to end up with a dragon egg someday, even though he usually complains that he’d make a much better Moaning Myrtle, thank you very much.

They’re nearing the end of the movie and debating whether Slytherins really do throw the best parties when David whispers into Grantaire’s ear, “I’ll let you Slytherin my Chamber of Secrets.” Grantaire blushes bright red.

Courfeyrac lets out a barking laugh. “Kids in love,” he says wistfully. Enjolras wants to puke.

He’s not staring at Grantaire, he swears, and anyway, he’s probably imagining the moment when he catches Grantaire staring back too.

* * *

It all falls apart when Grantaire forgets the cupcakes.

In all of Enjolras’s years of attempting to recruit members into their club—though with so many attractive college-age boys, the problem isn’t recruitment, it’s more like trying not to scare people off with his speeches—Enjolras has discovered the failsafe method of bribery: free food. Les Amis’s booth is set up, right next to the debate team and the theater kids, but there’s one thing missing.

“Didn’t Grantaire say that he could get Cosette to bake us cupcakes?” Enjolras has left ten voicemails and about twenty texts, but Grantaire still refuses to reply. Marius’s girlfriend, Cosette, owns a bakery near Café Musain, and the cupcakes are positively orgasmic. It’s almost a shame she’s saddled with Grantaire as an employee, but she lets him drink on breaks and doesn’t berate him when he rants about the futility of life to strangers, so she’s not getting rid of the cynic any time soon. “Someone, anyone, call R!”

Even Courfeyrac looks flustered. “I don’t know, he won’t call back.”

Combeferre ends a call he’s been making and announces, “Eponine says that she can’t reach him either. His inbox is full.”

“And it’s too early in the day for him to be at a bar…” Feuilly points out. He’s trying to straighten out a blown-up cartoon Grantaire had done of the university administration. It’s probably not the best way to gain faculty support, but they suspect everyone thinks Blondeau is a jerk anyway.

“Is it ever too early for Grantaire to start drinking?” Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers.

“It’s not that bad,” Feuilly tries, “I mean, free food is nice and all, but college kids aren’t that stupid. They won’t just follow the food. We’ve still got our ideals, and people will be drawn to that.”

Courfeyrac taps his foot, thinking. “Okay, I say you send me out there to flirt. It’s our only hope.” He grabs Enjolras and rubs his stomach. Courfeyrac and the concept of personal space aren’t exactly the best of friends. “Oh look, Enjolras, you’ve been working out! Take your shirt off, that may help.”

A familiar voice carries over the hubbub of the crowd. “What’s going on?” Grantaire calls, jogging over to the booth. Grantaire’s eyebrows rise when Feuilly, Combeferre, Enjolras, and Courfeyrac stare at him like they’ve seen a ghost.

“What the _hell?”_ Enjolras’s fingers clench and unclench in quick succession, and he takes deep breaths to steady himself before launching into his tirade. “Where’ve you been? We’ve been trying to get in contact with you.” He looks down at Grantaire’s hands, only to see that they’re empty. “And where are those goddamn cupcakes? You promised.” If he sounds like a petulant child with that last bit, his friends pretend they can’t tell.

It takes Grantaire a moment. “Shit.” He slides his phone out of his pocket and starts when he sees the missed calls, voicemails, and texts. “Shit, shit, shit. I’m so sorry. I was with David, and I had this turned off.”

There’s that word again. David.

“Are you good for anything? When someone promises to do something, they usually keep their word, but not you, Grantaire.” Enjolras isn’t so sure they’re even talking about cupcakes anymore.

“The rest of us mere mortals are supposed to follow the mighty Enjolras wherever he goes?”

“You could have given me a little warning! I know you don’t believe that the world can change or that human beings are inherently good, but I gave you a chance to do something that wouldn’t even take you the slightest bit of effort, and you fucked it up.”

“I’m sorry that I can’t live up to your standards all the damn time. The world isn’t supposed to revolve around you, but it does, okay?” For someone supposedly in love with him, Enjolras can’t help but think that Grantaire’s being unnecessarily antagonistic. It’s too bad he didn’t see it before it was too late.

He wonders, belatedly, if they should be having this conversation in front of their friends, but he figures Les Amis are so codependent that there’s no such thing as secrets between them. It’s hardly healthy, but it functions just fine. They’re connected by some kind of telepathy, forged through movie nights and mental scarring from Courfeyrac, but right now, Grantaire’s got his metaphorical tinfoil hat on. Enjolras can’t tell what’s running through his head.

Enjolras knows how to use his words, he definitely does. So he knows the words that will hurt Grantaire the most. “I’m almost glad we had this fight. It just proves how wrong we are for each other.”

He regrets the words as soon as he says them, but he can’t take them back now.

Grantaire’s face turns stony within seconds, and he has _no right_. “Yeah. Well.”

David appears, almost out of nowhere, and takes Grantaire’s hand. Enjolras can’t hear their soft voices, but he’s probably asking Grantaire what’s wrong, and Grantaire’s shaking his head, his eyes darting back to Enjolras like he can’t look away. When David ascertains the direction of Grantaire’s glances, he wraps a protective arm around Grantaire’s shoulders to lead him away. Of course he’d think Enjolras was in the wrong.  

Courfeyrac’s voice is quiet. “He just left you?”

Enjolras ignores him, like he’s ignored so much else in his life.

Marius comes running up, red-faced, a stack of flyers underneath his arm. “Sorry I’m so late—I was cutting out coupons. What did I miss?”

* * *

One week after the fact, there’s a loud knocking on Enjolras’s door. He groans and falls off the sofa where he’s currently wallowing, mindlessly scrolling through news sites. He’s fine around the rest of his friends, but home alone, he figures he’s allowed this at least. Eponine and Cosette had been over earlier to do the whole ice-cream-and-chick-flick routine, but someone called Courfeyrac, and so impromptu movie night it was—sans Grantaire. Candy wrappers crunch under Enjolras’s feet as he makes his way to the door, preparing himself to face Combeferre or whoever decided that the way to Enjolras’s happiness was through their supposedly pleasant company.

It’s Grantaire.

Grantaire’s face is red, and he clutches a messenger bag in his hand. Enjolras almost points out that _straps exist for a reason, R_ , but the expression on Grantaire’s face is so serious and out of character that Enjolras realizes that now is not the time.

“Do you—do you need any help with that?” asks Enjolras. Paintbrushes are spilling out of the bag, and it looks five seconds away from bursting.

“Sorry, I, um, ran here from the art store. Kind of an impulse visit, really. Uh.” For someone who’s usually so eloquent, Grantaire is using a ridiculous amount of fillers. “I know I’m not your favorite person right now, but can I come in?”

It takes Enjolras a minute to register the words. “Yeah, of course, yes.”

Grantaire eyes the mess as they tentatively sit down on the couch, and Enjolras wishes he can will away the half-empty carton of ice cream currently melting on his coffee table.

“I was supposed to be at a party tonight. With David. Who is nice to me , doesn’t try to fix me, and has never been disappointed in me.” Grantaire’s eyes are hard as he lays down the facts one-by-one.  

Enjolras wonders if this is to turn into another fight. “Then why are you here?”

“I _tried_ , Enjolras, I tried so fucking hard. But then we fought, and I remembered how much goddamn fun it was to fight with you, even when you’re slowly killing me. We should really talk about that, yeah.”

“But I was so mean to you,” Enjolras says, and he winces, because “mean” doesn’t quite cover how he had acted that day.

“I figured you weren’t really talking about cupcakes.” It’s the best show of forgiveness Enjolras is going to get, and he’ll take it. Grantaire pulls at the ends of his curly hair and confesses, “David and I were fighting that night because he thought I was still in love with you. But he apologized the next morning, before you woke up, and I just didn’t want to have you believe in me only to let you down later on.” Grantaire laughs sardonically. “We broke up anyway, so all that effort went completely down the drain. I’m not a particularly reliable person. If you’re Achilles, I’m not even capable of being Patroclus, because Patroclus gave his life for him.”

Enjolras gapes at him, and Grantaire’s actions begin to make a little bit more sense. He wonders how long Grantaire’s lack of self-esteem will stick around as the third wheel in their...whatever this is.

“So you purposely fucked it all up,” Enjolras says slowly, “And Achilles turned into a killing machine after Patroclus died, he was so mad. Their relationship was hardly one-sided.” Referencing Greek heroes probably wasn’t the best way to get his message across, but he and Grantaire have always been bad at communication anyway. He only hopes Grantaire can catch the hidden meaning.

“Courfeyrac may have said something.” Grantaire winces—that wasn’t the best way to start a conversation. “I told him it was ridiculous, but he told me to talk to you, so. He said that you were in love with me?” The look on Grantaire’s face is so hopeful and unguarded that Enjolras feels sick to his stomach remembering exactly why the concept would seem so foreign and strange to Grantaire.

“What great deductive skills you have,” Enjolras says, quoting Grantaire. “I thought that sleeping with you would clue you in a little.”

Grantaire tries to keep himself from smiling too widely, and Enjolras wants to be hit with the full force of that smile. He knows Grantaire’s probably holding back for some fucked-up reason of his, but Enjolras isn’t perfect—no one is—he wants what his brain tells him is incompatible, and right now, it’s Grantaire, who sounds affronted. “Sleeping with someone is hardly a declaration of love. And you didn’t exactly say anything about it.”

“Would it have helped?”

“I was, you know, I was trying to—I don’t know—forget you? And that sounds really pathetic, but I’m pretty fucking pathetic.”

Enjolras doesn’t know how long it will take Grantaire to understand that he’s worth more than he thinks, but Enjolras willing to help him every step of the way. “I just went through three cartons of ice cream and four seasons of Doctor Who. I could give you a run for your money in a contest of pathetic.” Then, his voice turns serious. “I’m not the god you think I am.”

And there’s the grin Enjolras had been hoping to see. “No, you’re petty, possessive, rude, doesn’t know how to articulate his emotions… and the worst part!” He pokes his finger into Enjolras’s chest. “You were nice to me. For a month. Do you know how weird it was not to fight with you? I almost went crazy.”

“I thought it was what you wanted.”

“Well, obviously not. We just fought, and I’m sitting here, wondering why we’re not kissing yet, so fighting’s the key to open communication with us.”

“We’re both very messed up in the head,” Enjolras says very seriously.

But then Grantaire’s lips are on his, and he stops contemplating the exact extent of his crazy. Enjolras’s fingers twine through Grantaire’s hair again, and he should be feeling some déjà vu, shouldn’t he? This is new though, so entirely new. There’s no confusion and blocked lines of communication driving a wedge between them. He almost wants to redo their first kiss, but _no_ , he wouldn’t change history, and perfection is bullshit anyway. The paint flecks in Grantaire’s hair are still wet, but the colors smear all over his hand so beautifully.

* * *

Enjolras wakes to the sound of Grantaire’s breathing and Courfeyrac delivering a solemn eulogy in the living room. He shakes Grantaire’s shoulder to wake him up, and Enjolras vows to remember how Grantaire looks like this, all half-lidded eyes and unruly hair.

“Whassamatter?” he mumbles, his face still partly pressed against the window. “Let me sleep here.”

Enjolras shushes Grantaire quietly and points to the door, and they can both hear the sounds of their friends laughing. Enjolras doesn’t know why Combeferre let them in, but he can say bye-bye to his collection of Dickens’s work. Quietly, Enjolras and Grantaire make their way to the door to peek at the early-morning festivities.

Enjolras’s living room isn’t usually one used for social gatherings, and it’s strange to see all of his friends in such a setting. Courfeyrac stands over a makeshift gravestone, holding a rose. “Here lies the stick up Enjolras’s ass. Except, no, not really, because you can’t bury metaphors. I first became acquainted with the stick in my freshman year of college, when I went temporarily insane and tried to hit on Enjolras. The stick has been a constant presence in our lives since the start of Les Amis, and he will be sorely missed by all of its members. May he rest in peace knowing that he’ll be replaced by a new stick, and no matter what Jehan says about how crappy of a euphemism that is, I think it’s beautiful.”

Bahorel throws in an “amen” for good measure.

It’s Jehan who spies Enjolras and Grantaire first. “And the happy couple decides to wake up! Hey guys, have some cookies. I made them in the shape of skulls because, you know, funeral.”

Enjolras groans loudly as he blearily rubs the sleep from his eyes. “Seriously, it’s eight in the morning.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s kind of cute,” Grantaire pipes up, and yes, they’re back to normal because Enjolras does kind of want to punch him.

Courfeyrac pretends to swoon. “Aw, aren’t they adorable? Are you two going to be, like, the cutest couple, like, ever now?” If Courfeyrac bats his eyelashes any more rapidly, Enjolras swears they’re going to fall off.

Enjolras hasn’t used the full force of what Courfeyrac dubbed as his I’m the Boss voice for a while, but Grantaire is pressed against him, so he makes an exception. He states, very clearly, “So what’s going to happen is that you people are going to finish your little funeral _quietly_. I’m going to go back to bed to cuddle the shit out of my boyfriend.” Grantaire makes a strangled noise, and Enjolras has to work to contain his smile. “It is way too early to deal with your crap.”

“No, actually, I really want a cookie,” Grantaire says. Enjolras glares at him (what is the point of having a boyfriend if he’s not going to stand in solidarity with you against your friends?) and Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Fine, let’s go,” he concedes as he allows Enjolras to lead him back to bed. “But just so you know,” he says in a whisper that’s not quite a whisper, “I’m only coming with you for the sex.”

Grantaire mouths “leave some cookies for me” over his shoulder, but the door is already shutting behind him.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the [tumblr](http://cossetcosette.tumblr.com/) I've actually been using more often. If you want to talk, you can contact me on here. I love people, really.


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